


5, 4, 3, 2, 1

by Pitak



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Non-graphic descriptions of death, POV Sebastian Moran, Suicide, how do you do tags anyways, how else would it be with these two though, it's not happy guys, or sorta is but no, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pitak/pseuds/Pitak
Summary: Some un-betaed, un-edited rambles that may or may not make sense to anyone
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Kudos: 5





	5, 4, 3, 2, 1

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.** ****

You count, your voice is a quiet whisper in your own mind, repeating the sequence over and over and over again.

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

Detachment. Separation. Every fucking word in the entire English language for splitting yourself into two halves and pushing one part as far away as it possibly goes. You’re here, but you can’t be here. Not for this. Not now. Not this time. 

You’re like a ghost, body working, doing what it needs to, steady hands. Calm eyes. Breathing slowly, collected. Inhale. Exhale. Slow and steady wins the race, and your body knows how to stay alive. It knows how to function. It knows which muscles to tense and which to relax. It’s like the blood in your veins knows that you’re not here, that the body is on its own. 

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

I’m sorry, Sebastian Moran is not available right now. Can I please take a message?

What a fucking joke that is. That it’s you, so far away. It’s never been you. It has always been him, fading away like the sunset on the horizon. Slipping into darkness, slipping _away_. Glimpses, signs, cracks. Pot, kettle, three turns and you’ve arrived at your destination and the low hum of something ABBA in the background. 

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

You’re so far away. You can’t even see him. Can’t even see yourself. Floating somewhere high above. A dot on the sky, bright and calm and the irony is that you’re one of them. One of the stars. The fucking stars. Burning and shining oh-so-brightly down on the blackness that’s replaced the man you once knew. 

Steady wins the race until it doesn’t. There’s nothing calm about stormy seas. There’s nothing quiet about thunderstorms. There’s nothing louder than the silence between the two of you.

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes are shut, it almost looks like he’s daydreaming. Like he’s at peace, if someone like him were ever given the ability to feel peace.

What the fuck is peace, anyways, if nothing but an illusion to keep people in line. To make sure that sheep will still be sheep, that goldfish will swim in endless circles until their inevitable demise. A lie told to children from their first day on earth, a plot to make sure that nothing ever really changes. That everything stays the same, the wheel keeps on turning, the clock keeps on ticking, the earth keeps on rotating around the sun in the same 364-day cycle. 

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

If you were there, you’d be able to feel him against yourself. Shoulders against your chest, calm and steady. His warmth against your. The curve of his spine. The edge of his shoulder blades. His weight against your own, so familiar. The subtle shifts of every breath he takes. Inhale. Exhale. Calm. 

Surrendering. Giving up. Giving in. Letting go. 

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

You know you should be there. Present. In the moment. You know that you will regret this. A final nail in your coffin of remorse. It’s fitting, that the last thing you’ll end up doing is yet another fucking failure. It’s those that haunts you the most. The failures that you were never going to get right in the first place. 

Cursed to fail from your very first breath, running away from the ghosts that live inside your own mind, drawn into orbit of the sun, willing to crash, yearning to burn. 

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

Somewhere, someone is born. Every second, a new life. Screaming and crying, entering the world in a violent, gruesome manner. One that is a starking contrast to how most people leave. You’re born from blood and tears and screams, surrounded by voices and chaos and bright, blinding lights. 

A stark contrast to how you go. Alone, in silence. Everyone dies alone. It doesn’t matter if anyone is there by your side, you’re still alone. You’re still there, in the depths of your mind, waiting for the last dragging inhale of air, waiting for the flick of the switch. Waiting to go from _on_ to _off_. 

All alone. Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is fucking lying. 

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

Maybe it doesn’t matter that you’re not there. If everyone dies alone, maybe it doesn’t matter that you’re just an empty shell, a beating heart, a mindless presence. A steady, calm breath. Rise and falls of your chest that works almost like a fucking lullabye. It works, is the point. You’re calm. He’s calm. 

There’s no need for words. The words have all been spoken. Over the span of years, they’ve all been said. Every word in every language, every glance and look and subtle and violent touch. You’ve said it all. Time and time again. They are used up now. Old, unnecessary. Useless. All of them, all the words, have met their expiration date, and faded away into nothingness. 

All but three. 

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

A ghost of a smile. Fingers laced with your own. Soft and warm and quiet. If you were there, you’d feel it all. Feel how your body is torn between the two sensations. Warm skin against your left hand, manicured nails resting gently against your skin. The heavy, cold metal of your gun. The familiar weight of it. The curve of the trigger. The slight strain of your muscles as you keep the barrel pressed to his temple.

Steady. Calm. Familiar.

**5, 4, 3, 2, 1.**

Like a thunderstorm, you come crashing back. Loudly, breaking the silence, forcing you back into the reality you have made for yourself. You are death. You are doom. You are destruction. You are all that is inevitable and you are all that will hurt. You are the embodiment of blackness, of the void, of the last, shallow breath he takes. The last heartbeat. You are the last. The only, the first, the last.

You are nothing but a vacant spot in the skies. You are nothing but another number in the books. Statistics. An empty grave, a nameless tomb. You’re dust in the speck of time and you don’t mean anything. You’ve had no impact. 

The wheel keeps on turning. The clock keeps on ticking. The earth keeps on rotating around the sun in the same 364-day cycle. 

**5\. 4. 3. 2. 1.**

_Do not stand at my grave and weep  
_ _I am not there, I do not sleep_

There won’t be anyone at his funeral. 

There won’t be anyone at yours. 

**1\. 2. 3. 4. 5**.

It’s methodical. He’s heavy against you, and you let the limp, lifeless weight of him drag you down. Drag you under. You welcome it. You’ve been ready for years. You’ve been prepared. You’ve known this was coming. It has been written in the stars since the day you were born, if you believe that sort of crap.

You don’t, but that doesn’t make it less true. Back against the dewy grass, him on your chest. Wet with blood, wet with tears, a ghost of a smile still lingering on his paling face.

Eyes shut. Calm. Steady. Peaceful. 

**1**. 

Interlaced fingers. 

**2.**

Steady, familiar weight. Like he’s asleep. 

**3.**

The stars above you. The stars within you. The dying sun within him. 

**4.**

The contrast. The fading warmth. The steady metal against your temple. The curve of the trigger. 

**5.**

The familiarity. The acceptance. The blissful moment of nothingness. The last breath and the last heartbeat. The three quiet words lingering on your lips. 

_I love you_. 

The wheels keep on turning.

The clock keeps on ticking.

The earth keeps on rotating around the sun in the same 364-day cycle. 

But the sun is dead, and so are all the stars, and there is nothing but blackness, emptiness, darkness. 

Peace. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Quote from _Do Not Stand at My Grave_ and Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye.


End file.
